


Reclaiming memories

by RabidRabbit



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: A bit of closure was needed, Action/Adventure, Ciri rocks, Father-Daughter Relationship, Geralt is a proud daddy, Mild Gore, The last crone, Vesemir's medallion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:54:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27964121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RabidRabbit/pseuds/RabidRabbit
Summary: Ciri has unfinished business with the Weavess. She won't let Vesemir's medallion be left in the last crone's clutches. Luckily she had a dad who wholeheartedly agrees.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Reclaiming memories

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for the third bi-weekly writing challenge on the 'The witcher world, origial fan art' facebook page.  
> As always: Please let me know if I made errors in spelling or grammar, English is not my native language and I like to learn.  
> Also please let me know what does and doesn't work in the story!

.  
.  
.  
.

“Out with it. What’s wrong?”  
Geralt had managed to keep his tongue in check for hours, ever since Ciri had taken down a golem with such perfect precision he himself had only been needed as back-up. The rush of adrenaline after battle had given way to a rather morose mood as they’d ridden back to the village to turn in proof of their kill, and she’d been stirring and poking her bowl of stew for so long it had turned into a lukewarm mashed slush.  
“You performed fantastically. A clean kill, no unnecessary risks taken, no injuries to speak of… Even Vesemir would have been hard pressed to come up with any real criticism. So why the long face?” 

Ciri dropped the spoon she’d been using to ruin her dinner and sighed. “That’s just it I suppose. He isn’t here to offer criticism anymore. I’ve traveled so far, wandered for so long, and he’s alway been there, just waiting in Kaer Morhen for me to come back to, as unchanging as the fortress itself. I suppose I thought he always would be.” She swallowed, clenched fists white against the table.  
“I have nothing of his anymore. That last crone took the final memento I had. I don’t have your century of memories, or Lambert’s peace with the end of an era. I just had his medallion, and now even that is gone. _He_ is gone.”

She looked like the explanation had been more exhausting than ending a golem’s reign of terror had been.  
She hadn’t been raised in an environment where emotion was part of decision-making or something that was discussed at all unless it interfered with her work or her safety. Neither her grandmother nor Geralt himself had been in a position to cater to the emotions or feelings of a young girl, not with the world as harsh and dark as it had been for them.  
Mother Nenneke had likely been the main source of true emotional care she’d had since early childhood, the priestess’s short and to-the-point manners hiding the warmth of a mother hen tucking all her wayward chicks back under her wings. Geralt himself loved and hated the mothering she dished out in equal measure, knowing she still saw the lanky, studious child he’d been when she’d first set eyes on him whenever he came to beg her aid.  
But even Nenneke couldn’t level out all the harshness and pain that had come before and after, and it was surprisingly painful to see Ciri struggle. It was one of the many failures in his attempt at raising her, one he couldn’t truly mend. He wouldn’t stop trying though. 

“Then why don’t we get it back?” he said, nudging her foot to get her attention. Surprised eyes met his, the bright elven green startling every time he saw them. 

“Get it back?” she said, voice slightly louder than it had been. “Where would we even start? I don’t think she’ll come running if we ask her kindly.” 

“No. But we could hurt her ‘till she does, or smoke her out like a badger. Everything can be hurt after all, we just have to find a way to do so.”  
There was a list of supposedly impossible things they’d managed to do as long as dear Dandelion’s list of former lovers between them, they’d think of something. 

“She said something to me.” Geralt said, wondering if he shouldn’t keep it to himself even as he talked. “Back when I was searching for you. _‘Our fates are bound’_. I don’t often put much stock in such things, but from a creature as old as the Crones… Who knows what powers lurk in that twisted mind? Maybe we are meant to find her.” He shrugged and gave the girl across from the table a wry grin. “Although, she also expressed an interest in being ‘woven together with me’, so maybe I should let you pursue this on your own, just to be safe.”  
Ciri seemed thoughtful rather than amused though. She put far more stock in claims like the one the Weavess had made than Geralt himself did. Perhaps because she herself was capable of predicting flashes of the future, no matter how cryptic the warnings her subconscious mind gave were. _Three teeth will kill you._  
“Come on kid, eat your food and we’ll be on our way. The innkeep is giving us the evil eye, I think we’ve outstayed our welcome.” 

Kelpie and Roach kept pace nicely, hooves crushing the crispy autumn leaves that littered the road. The tall black mare would outrun Geralt’s lovely girl easily if she had to, but the two had both quickly come to appreciate the company of another horse and stuck together like glue. Their riders were equally pleased to simply enjoy the early autumn days they spend on the Path. There were no pressing matters to settle, no great cataclysm to prevent, invasion by monsters to stop, or loved ones to save. They were just father and daughter, sharing their life like they would have done if Ciri had stayed in his care as a child. 

They took contracts when they could, nosing about in towns and villages to search out work that needed a witcher’s tender touch. They slept rough most nights, treated themselves to fancy dinners when they had the chance, and talked more than they ever had before. They teased and laughed, shared bittersweet memories, and got horrifically drunk once and woke curled against each other with an empty bottle between them in the piss-drenched mud outside a cheap tavern. The pounding headaches and severe cases of nausea that only let up after half a day in the saddle led to both taking turns holding the other’s hair out of the way as they puked their guts out. They solemnly promised never to tell Yennefer about it. 

Through everything they did, every town they passed and every launderer they paid to scrub blood and sweat and monster feces out of their clothes, they put out feelers. Had anyone begged the crones for help and gotten it? Had grave misfortune suddenly befallen some blasphemer? Had children gone missing?  
Most of those questions led to nothing, just people being exceptionally lucky and their less happy opposites, though they had managed to find a bruxa who’d been feeding on farmers’ children. It had eluded detection by roaming the countryside, snatching kids from outlying farms and homesteads too far apart for people to connect the dots.  
It’s head and organs had lined their pockets nicely once they’d all been sold off and they started promising rewards for information. 

Money always loosened tongues, and people were suddenly quite willing to drag up whatever rumour they’d heard about witches or strange occurrences when gold strengthened the memory. Much of it was utter quatsch, the usual fear-fuelled fantasies of uneducated folk, rife with non-existent monsters and made-up curses to cover up their own misbehaviour. But a pattern started to emerge from the mass of wildly embellished stories they heard. 

The first real crumb of information started as a drunken tale in a tavern they stopped at to wait out a day of heavy rain that even hardened travelers like them would rather not ride in. A group of locals, halfway drunk and working hard to get to full inebriation were getting increasingly loud in their boasting about the gifts they’d left at the altar outside the village.  
The boasts first caught Ciri’s attention for their weirdness, piety not generally being at the forefront of the minds of drunken men in her experience. Curiosity led her to buying the lot of them a round of the cheap ale they served in rather badly dented tin pints here, joining them at their table without Geralt looming over her shoulder to sour the mood. 

It soon turned out that the men’s newfound devotion was triggered by a traveling witch, too beautiful to be real, who’d promised to come by again if they were dutiful in their worship of the old gods.  
“She was lovelier than the shapeliest maiden in this town.” one said whilst looking Ciri over, eyes roaming. “The loveliest tits I’d ever seen.” another said dreamily. “Beg ye’r pardon miss, but it’s true as rain, no doubt about it.” 

“She healed Berig’s lad when he got a fever.” one of the older men said, “Didn’t ask for naught but a sack of grain and the boy’s hair in exchange. Now that’s something no mage or herbcrusher would do. Pay in coin or pay in blood, that’s what they’d have said, never mind the fact that Berig’s husband died in the war.” 

Ciri bought the group another round and left after drawing out as many tales about the witch as she could, finding Geralt at the door with both their packs already slung over his shoulders. “Altar?” they said simultaneously, stepping out into the pouring rain. 

Their horses were unwilling to leave the dry stands they had been occupying but were obedient enough to carry them along the muddy track that led to the village altar. It was similar to many others dotted around the Velen countryside, a rough-cut humanoid shape, its face all but featureless, hips and breasts grotesquely exaggerated. A sturdy roof protected it from the worst of the weather, leaving the offerings around the statue’s feet more or less intact.  
Bunches of fresh wildflowers covered the floor, they in turn covered in grain. Locks of hair tied to the posts supporting the roof danced in the wind, curls of blonde and black and every shade in between. 

“This looks promising.” Ciri said as she poked at the flowers and seeds with the toe of her boot. “Grain and hair, left at the altar.” 

“The weavess’ preferred gifts.” Geralt replied, gazing up at the wooden figure staring down at them, it’s lack of facial features somehow strangely malevolent, as if it knew the idea cropping up in his mind as thunder started to rumble in the distance.

“This might give us a way to draw her out.” he said as he started to rummage in the gear that was strapped to Roach’s back. 

“What? Give her gifts and pretend to be a worshipper? I don’t think she’ll actually come back for these men, regardless of the amount of grain or hair they offer.” 

Not exactly.” 

Geralt came back with their little hatchet in his hands, the protective leather covering already removed. He looked about for a moment, peering into the rain to check if they were truly alone in the gathering darkness, and set to work.  
Splinters of bone-dry wood flew about as he hacked at the back of the statue, hacking off a chunk of its rough-hewn buttock and showing it with a triumphant grin. 

“This has been here for ages, it must be soaked in her magic. Let’s see how well she takes it if we gather bits and pieces of her altars and make ourselves a good old bonfire with it.” 

They continued their travels through Velen, stopping in every town and village they came across, violating every altar and statue of the crones they could find. It was a long game they were playing, cutting at the Weavess’ power with every chip and chunk of wood they took. The old sack they used to gather the bits and pieces in got heavier with time, and it was at the morning of the first hoarfrost of winter that they finally got a reaction. 

The morning silence was broken by the cawing of ravens.  
Beady eyes stared down at them, shiny black bodies gleaming against the stark white of ice-covered branches.  
The birds kept watching them as they went about their morning, brewing a pot of tea to thaw out their cold fingers, folding their blankets and tacking up their horses. The flapping of wings accompanied them as they set off with the sun at their backs, making their way across a glittering, frozen landscape, keeping silent by unspoken agreement. 

They’d discussed their plan at length when Geralt had first come up with it, deciding on the best way and place to make their stand. Both knew better than to state their destination out loud now that they had managed to draw the attention of their prey, riding along paths and roads as if they were aimlessly wandering. A contract here and there added to the illusion, chosen carefully to take them further south with every monster they were paid to hunt. Every day of travel took them closer to Crookback bog, and winter had barely started when they finally saw the sagging sheds of the tiny settlement at its heart. 

They left their horses to graze at the sparse grass and only took their weapons and the sack of wood chips with them as they followed the boardwalks to the largest of the ramshackle buildings. Ciri shivered, memories that’d best stay at the back of her mind popping up without her bidding. The bubbling of gas when they broke the thin layer of ice that covered the muddy water. The rattle of branches in the wind. The sound of her own breath as it formed small clouds in the cold air. They all reminded her of the desperate flight when she’d first ended up here, injured and alone. 

_I’m not alone now.._ she though, looking sideways and meeting Geralt’s gaze with a faint smile. 

“Ready for this kid?” he asked as he bumped his shoulder into hers, the wood he carried rattling.

“More than ready. Let’s do this.” 

They kicked open the door when its hinges refused to budge, rusted shut in the months since someone had been there last. Dust showered down from the thatch as the stench of rot and decay filled their noses, mould covering most of the surfaces.  
The tapestry still hung where it had, far in the back, surrounded by candles and a disturbing supply of hair, old skulls grinning out at them in a macabre welcome. 

Geralt piled the chunks of wood he’d carried on the large slab of stone that served as an altar, stacking them against the woven image of the crones in all their imaginary splendour. His medallion hummed as he worked, a faint vibration against his chest that got steadily stronger as Ciri lighted candle after candle.  
They soon had the room ablaze with light, the flicker of dozens of tiny flames lighting the motes of dust that fluttered in the air. 

“Here we go.” she said as they pushed stubs of candles and chips of wax into the pile of wood, taking a deep breath before setting fire to the wicks. 

Nothing happened at first, just the candles burning. But then the tapestry started to smoke, the scent of burning hair prickling their noses. Flames soon licked up and out, eating away at the locks that had been taken from hundreds and hundreds of children. It took barely a minute for the weave to disintegrate, falling down in burning shreds and igniting the chopped up remains of statues they’d gathered all around Velen.

Smoke filled the room, billowing up along with the flames as they ate at the old wooden walls. It wasn’t long before they had to leave, the heat of the fire chasing them as they ran for the door and the clear air beyond. 

They were welcomed by a barrage of birds, beaks and claws pecking and scratching at every inch of exposed skin. The ring of swords being drawn rang through the cacophony of cawing and fluttering wings, silver shining bright in the cold winter light. 

The birds charged again, clawing at their eyes and screaming in anger as flames started eating at the mouldy thatch of the building behind them, before moving off and coalescing into the shape that had filled nightmares for Ciri and Geralt both.

“Have the children been bad?” the Weavess croaked, peering at them with her horrifying substitute for an eye. “The White-Haired one had found his Ashen-haired charge. Have you not had enough? Have you not taken all already?” 

“You have something of mine.” Ciri answered, sword steady in front of her. “You took something from me and I want it back.” 

“Pha! Weak girl. Foolish girl!” The crone swayed and gestured wildly as she talked, crooked back stretching and twisting as she pointed an accusing finger at Ciri.  
“You brought your White-Haired one to fight for you. A man who didn’t dare to face us without a woman to cower behind, as impotent with his sword of silver as he is with his sword of flesh. Great favours we would have given him, great pleasures before his death, if he was not such a coward. Now you will both die in agony.” 

Rage, so white-hot that it felt cold as ice filled Ciri as she listened to the crone. Her knuckles cracked with the force with which she held the hilt of her blade, and she might have attacked blindly if Geralt’s cool voice hadn’t cut through the anger. 

“Pots and kettles.” he bit out, disgust colouring his voice. “You hid between the corpses of your sisters to escape Ciri, and now hid amongst the humans to escape our notice, a common hedgewitch, living on scraps and begging lowly farmers for attention.”

A scream of rage was all the reaction he got before the Weavess launched herself at Ciri, her tattered clothes and the loose end of the noose around her neck fluttering behind her.  
Endless training and muscle-memory took over, Ciri’s blade rising to meet the crone’s claws in a perfect arc as Geralt’s fingers twisted in the sign of aard. 

The magic slammed into the twisted form of the crone right as she burst apart in a cloud of birds, feathers raining down even though the majority of the birds got away safely. The cawing ravens whirled around, the rush of beating wings loud in the air, and returned to the solid shape of the Weavess right at Geralt’s back. 

“Watch out!” Ciri shouted as she watched the crone slash at the witcher’s bare neck.  
The warning wasn’t needed to warn him of the monster’s presence, improved reflexes more than fast enough to roll out of the way as soon as she regained her disgusting shape, but it wasn’t meant as such. 

It warned him of her own plans instead, her sword whistling through the space Geralt’s chest had occupied a fraction of a second before.  
The crone was not quite as fast as a witcher though, and a bright line of red appeared on her bare forearm where the sharp silver cut through ancient skin and muscle. The lunge that smoothly followed met nothing but air as the Weavess once again took wing, but the birds’ flight had lost its smoothness, their left wings crippled.  
They were soon forced to resume their single form, and a hard, chaotic fight followed. 

The Weavess was angry and desperate, taunting and insulting as she clawed and slashed. Drowners and hags surfaced in response to her summons, joining the fray with guttural screeches and growls.  
They died swiftly, at the edge of blades or burning alive in flashes of magic, but their sheer number was enough to leave Geralt and Ciri fighting their own separate battles. They’d both been taught to _move_ , never to be still as long as an enemy was still standing, and that style of fighting didn’t lend itself to guarding each others’ backs. 

Countless corpses soon littered the ground, and all three of the main combatants were bleeding from dozens of wounds when Ciri and Geralt finally managed to back the Weavess against the burning remains of the barn that had housed her altar.  
The creature was limping badly, her left leg almost as useless as the childrens’ legs she carried around. Her sole eye flew from left to right, trying to find a way out as the witcher and the child of the Elder blood closed in, panic finally crossing her features. 

The roof of the barn collapsed in a cloud of sparks and flames.  
It blinded them for a moment, smoke and fire taking their sight, and the crone took her chance in a mad dash for freedom, pushing away from the wall and rushing forward. It brought her right in between father and daughter, where they couldn’t use their swords blindly to stop her for fear of hitting each other.

The desperate plan might very well have worked if it had been common humans hunting her, but witchers were taught to deal with debilitating injuries. They trained with blindfolds, with limbs tied back or even numbed, with their hearing or smell or sense of balance screwed up by magic.  
It meant Geralt heard her flight even if he couldn’t see her. He felt the displaced air, and grabbed for the shape he knew to be there. 

His fingers closed around the frayed edge of the noose that lay loosely around the Weavess’ neck. The ancient knots still moved smoothly, tightening sharply even as the crone was pulled back, choking and sputtering as she slammed into the ground. 

Her bulging eye barely had time to lock onto the gore-covered blade that thrust down, sinking into her chest even as she gasped for air that wouldn’t pass underneath the noose. 

“Go join your sisters!” Ciri bit out as she pushed against the sword, only stopping when the crossguard ground against the filthy cloth of the crone’s robe, pinning the Weavess like a bug. 

The last daughter of She Who Knows died in the mud, twitching and choking as her heels uselessly kicked at the ground. 

Ciri left her sword where it was, frantically tearing at the crone’s clothes until she finally found what she was looking for.  
Blood dripped down on tarnished silver as she grasped the medallion that had adorned Vesemir’s neck for centuries and clutched it against her breast. She took a shuddering breath, tears burning against her eyelids. 

A large, warm hand covered her shoulder, and Geralt’s voice sounded softer than she’d ever heard it. 

“He’s home.”


End file.
